By BecauseBecky.
~
People say that there is no right way to come out. That the situation is different for everyone and no one set of rules can be applied to The Dreaded Talk Of Doom. However, as I have discovered, there is definitely a wrong way. When telling your parent exactly how gay you are, there are a number of things to bear in mind:
One) Go over what you want to say beforehand so that, should you feel the urge to violently throw up in a nearby shrubbery, you can bury your puke in words.
Two) Make sure you are in an environment that you feel safe in, such as your living room or an abandoned cemetery. (Note: that was sarcasm. Please don't actually come out in an abandoned cemetery. Vampires are notorious homophobes.)
Three) Have the conversation at a time when none of the parties involved is feeling rushed or under an obligation to do something else.
Four) Try to speak calmly as studies have shown that it also has a calming affect on the person you are talking to.
Five) DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES YELL IT AT YOUR MOTHER IN THE MIDDLE OF A SUPERMARKET.
... You can already tell where this is going.
I should note, before I begin this story, that none of this is the fault of Morrison's (other supermarkets are just as inappropriate to announce your general percentage of gayness in). If I were fair, I would say that the shop did nothing wrong. The shop was there, being shopped in, as shops tend to be. I'm sure it did a remarkably good job of being shopped in. I'm sure its shop parents are very proud of its position in life. I have no idea where this metaphor is going.
However, it is because of my actions almost exactly a year ago that I can no longer spare a glance at that suspiciously not-McDonalds looking 'M' without wanting to empty the contents of my stomach onto the floor with shame and embarrassment.
I say almost exactly a year ago because, although this is the anniversary of when I came out, my mum was not the first person I came out to. The first people I came out to were my friends, because I knew the level of shits they gave about who I wanted to fuck was only marginally more than the amount I give about who won the Premier League in football this season, i.e none.
Okay, that's a lie. They did care. They now had more than double the amount of people to set me up with. Joy.
I should probably get down to what actually happened. The difficult part is the remembering. See, when I get nervous about things, I tend to forget. Forget everything. Where I was going, what happened, that I was even there at all. It's all a part of this big unsolvable mystery in my head, and that is that I don't actually understand how my head works, or why it does the things that it does. Either way, there are few scenarios where I have felt more nervous than this one.
So I don't remember why we were in Morrison's that day. I know we had tea there, because it was reasonably cheap and my mum couldn't be bothered to cook that night having come straight from work and then gone to the supermarket. I'm pretty sure I'd come from school, which is weird in itself as I usually take the bus home instead of being picked up as both my parents work until six.
From this information I can deduce that I missed the bus.
Great going, Becky. You made your mum duck out of work early and now you want to tell her that she may not get biological grandkids because of your newfound love for vagina? You are on fire today.
I can also tell you that I had scampi and chips at the Morrison's cafe. Not because I remember, but because I always get scampi and chips. This cheaply made batter-based meal, however, would not have greatly improved the puke I could feel rolling around in my stomach.
I did not, as I can sense the meme-lords among you guessing, dramatically leap in from a side door and yell "I'm gaaaaaaaay!" (I tried that with one friend and she ended up throwing the flour she was carrying all over us in shock at my surprise entry. Then, as we both spluttered and coughed the most dangerous explosive in our homes from our lungs, she proclaimed in a truly poetic way "I know, you bitch. And you're cleaning this up." Ah, friendship.)
So I'm sat there, itchy school uniform blazer on, lanyard and tie presumably still waiting to strangle me as they curl around my neck, and tomato sauce probably spilt down the front of my school shirt, watching my mother's tired expression as she digs into her lasagne, exhausted from her day at work and contemplating all the ironing that she would have to do that night, when I blurt it out.
"I'm pansexual."
Boom! Explosions go off, a lady at a nearby table faints dramatically, trumpets start playing and rainbows appropriately erupt from all nearby cups of tea that the Morrison's patrons have balanced on their tables as they chat politely about the weather.
Or, you know, not.
A wave of nausea washed over me. My head suddenly felt like I was stood up on the school bus, whizzing around corners as the vehicle tried its best to tip itself over whilst I leant to one side to stay upright. My mother, on the other hand, merely looked up from her meal (that was being digested quite easily, I might add) and said:
"What does that mean?"
I was now aware of an elderly couple at a table next to us leaning towards me in anticipation of my no doubt ridiculously-well-thought-out-and-unnecessary-word-for-my-sexuality. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. See, as someone with anxiety, the phrase what does that mean? usually hits a little bell in my head that says oh no, abort! Abort! Calling ship: mission unsuccessful! Get me out of here while you still can!
"Er," I stumbled over my words in a rush to get my mother to understand. Desperately, I reached for the back of my mind where a YouTube video of Jim Chapman my friend had sent me listed the definition of pansexual. "It means I'm attracted to people regardless of gender."
The words sounded cohesive, at least, but rehearsed. A line from a Shakespeare play repeated so many times that people have forgotten the meaning. My mum frowned.
"Isn't that bisexual?"
If before my brain had been in abort mode, now it was full on Beam me up, Scotty. Or kill me. Either one. Actually, death is the more preferable option right now.
I coughed. The couple next door had evidently decided that my conversation was worthy of their attention as they waited in anticipatory silence for my response. I was glad, at least, that they weren't going to start yelling at the young whippersnapper who had the nerve to be sexually attracted to items of kitchenware, which has happened both before and since.
"Um" *moment of appreciation for my varied and highly praised vocabulary* "No."
By this point, my heartbeat was throbbing in my throat. I wasn't sure whether my skin was going to leap right off and say good day! We have had enough of listening to your cringe-inducing conversations! We will now walk the hundred miles or so to the nearest coast and promptly take a stroll into the ocean.
Even though I had yet to make eye contact with my mum since the declaration of my sexuality, I could tell she was waiting for an elaboration.
"See," I began, eyes darting from table to ceiling to linoleum tiling. "Bisexual is just male or female, but there are people who identify as in between." I'm always awkward on the subject of gender. It's one thing that a lot of people still hold very strong opinions on. "Pansexual is like, anyone."
The re-occurring internet gag flashed in my mind: pansexual pirate likes all kinds of booty. But I wisely decided that particular quote was maybe not the best answer to this situation. Sometimes I wonder why Pottermore refuses to sort me into Ravenclaw.
"Okay..." my mum said, even though I could tell she still had questions. She managed to keep her silence on the matter all through the meal and halfway round the supermarket.
It was in the pasta section that she struck again (and, to be honest, isn't it always the pasta section?).
"So," she said, so casually that I knew something was up. "How long have you been feeling this way?"
Urgh MUUUUUUUUUUUM!
I shrugged and mumbled something about it being for a while. My mother then decided to ramble for a minute or two about how she was totally accepting, which I appreciated as it meant that I was not the only one having a near nervous breakdown from sheer awkwardness.
My mum capped off her oscar-winning speech with "And I know this might be a phase, right? But I'm behind you whatever."
A phase.
There was and is no way that I am telling my mother that my first crush was on Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer when I was six. (Of course, after having a crush on a FEMALE character, it still took me another eight years to figure out that maybe I wasn't straight. I'm a fucking genius.)
So here's what I did: I muttered something along the lines of 'of course it could be a phase' and promptly prayed that she would never mention it again.
The thing about the word 'phase': it feels demeaning, like any relationship I have with anyone who wasn't a guy wouldn't be as meaningful because it's just a phase. Like it was equivalent to dying my hair black or getting an emo haircut. Less permanent than a tattoo and more easily gotten rid of.
And I know my mum didn't mean it that way. My mother is just about the best person in the world and I love her, but something in me kind of deflated at that word.
Maybe it was the setting I had chosen to come out in that made me seem less serious, or the casual meal that accompanied it. I don't blame her. For someone not of the internet generation, she was remarkably accepting of a word that she had never heard of before. Most adults hate it when teenagers not only know something they don't, but are a part of that world they know nothing about.
Occasionally, I still have to correct my mother when she talks about my 'future boyfriend', but it's unfair to add too much weight to things like that. She doesn't mean to do it and it's more or less a product of the world she grew up in where she was taught through Ken-and-Barbie dolls that man♥️woman and woman♥️man.
Still, there was no way I was telling her when I got my first girlfriend. My mother, amazing though she is, has no problem shamelessly embarrassing me in front of literally anyone. Seriously. If you thought this story was cringey then you have clearly lived a much more trip-less, accidental-setting-on-fire-less life than mine.
Aaaaaand that's it. The whole story. All I can say is DO NOT DO WHAT I HAVE DONE. DON'T COME OUT IN A SUPERMARKET. DON'T YELL IT AT YOUR MOTHER AND FOR GOD'S SAKE MAKE SURE THAT VOMIT SHRUBBERY IS NEAR BY.
Peace out sukkas.
Mischief Managed,
BecauseBecky